The Truth Is Wound As Tight as Rose's Petals
by jarethsdragon
Summary: A storyteller tells beginning of the Beauty and the Beast to a special audience.
1. The Enchantress

Disclaimer: I do not intend to infringe on anyone's rights here. I don't own any of the words, nor the Prologue to Disney's Beauty and the Beast. I don't own anything.

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_Once upon a time, in a faraway land,  
A young Prince lived in a shining castle._

I hear the storyteller. He is sitting by the huge stone fireplace, relishing the rapt attention of his audience. The young ones like stories like this--a Prince or Princess, a shining castle, adventure. Of course, here, they must struggle to survive--it is a trial finding enough to eat--so I suppose that stories of palaces of plenty must be told.

_Although he had everything his heart desired,  
The Prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind._

Ahhh... the thick of it. The set up. I wish that it really had been so simple. Of course, the story changes over time--the storyteller makes minor "corrections" to suit the audience. Eventually, of course, the no one can recognize the truth, but the storytellers are hardly concerned with such a petty concern as truth, aren't they?

_But then, one winter's night,  
An old beggar woman came to the castle_

It was spring, actually. Early spring--just before the mists released the land to clear mornings. I was dressed as a beggar--had traded my gown of gossamer gold and moonlight silver for one of stench, dust and mud grey wool. Patched wool at that.

_And offered him a single Rose In return for shelter from the bitter cold._

The rose has always been sacred to us--so that part is true. Of course, the logical or the gardeners know that a rose will very very rarely bloom in the winter. But the thrall of the storyteller holds true here as well. After all, with the "Once upon a time", all disbelief is suspended.

_Repulsed by her haggard appearance,  
The Prince sneered at the gift,  
And turned the old woman away._

Repulsed? Why, I think not, storyteller! I tried most desperately to make my appearance look haggard and worn. I grayed my hair with ash, formed a hideous wart with a daub of clay and padded the dress. I worked my Arts to cover my bearing, hide my fair skin, and sag my skin. But he was hardly repulsed.

He had been expecting me.

_But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances,  
__For Beauty is found within._

Behold the moral message of the story--for those too young or too slow to grasp it. And to get it out of the way so that the drama may carry on.

Actually, I shouldn't be so bitter. He did turn me away--because that is what he had been told he must do. After all, he was a prince and the royal lines were well known to be visited by all sorts of witches, faeries, Fair Folk and enchantresses. It practically came with the crown. He could either do the obvious right thing, or turn me away and be rewarded with a marvelous adventure and "happily ever after".

He was a political genius. His father will be forgotten in the next generation--but his spirit will live on through a maddening tale as long as there are children to listen to it.

_And when he dismissed her again,  
The old woman's ugliness melted away To reveal a beautiful Enchantress._

Of course, I was obliged to reveal myself. It's not like I had much choice. To cover the Truth never changes it. I was not strong enough to maintain the guise much longer--particularly when there was no point.

He recognized me from the start.

And so we must play this charade to the end.

_The Prince tried to apologize, but it was too late,  
__For she had seen that there was no love in his heart._

Him? Apologize? I cannot say that any of them have apologized. At least, not with their hearts. Let us not fool ourselves.

He was expecting me. I was expecting him. Do you really think a crown prince would answer his own doorbell on any night? Let alone a night of purported winter chills? Would any reasonable person when they could instead send an underling and stay wrapped up in their warm furs and robes in their rooms?

_And as punishment,  
She transformed him into a hideous beast,  
And placed a powerful spell on the castle,  
And all who lived there._

I suppose that part is correct. There was a spell--my heart wasn't in making him hideous.My beast was actually somewhat handsome in the way a beautiful dog is handsome. It was practically obligatory to enchant the castle--to give the servants some form of adventure as they patiently waited for their freedom.

I am sounding bitter again.

It was hardly his fault that he knew me and was taking the opportunity that I offered. Besides, if he had offered me shelter and charity, what could I have offered him? He would have faded away with only an old woman's thanks. Instead, he has a whole village's children enraptured.

_Ashamed of his monstrous form,  
The beast concealed himself inside his castle,  
With a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world._

Hardly concealed away. Again, the storyteller embellishes this part. Of course, you cannot enchant an entire castle without someone noticing. And there seems to always be a shepherd or third son--or a seventh son's seventh son--who is watching, waiting. This may be his big chance to slip into his own adventure. And so they wait, watching the castles high above them.

_The Rose she had offered,  
Was truly an enchanted rose,  
Which would bloom for many years._

This is a new twist. The rose that I gave him was hardly enchanted--merely a rose plucked from my garden. I suppose that this is one more layer to insulate his audience from the bare bones truth. Of course, in this grubby village, having a rose--a plant with no food value, which is, at best, temperamental in this climate--is probably as magical to them as being visited by an Enchantress.

_If he could learn to love another,  
And earn her love in return By the time the last petal fell,  
Then the spell would be broken._

Ahh... so the rose is explained. And the little girls gasp. Each of them is wide-eyed and sighs a little bit. The little boys grumble a little. They want to see a great dragon slain, a mighty scourge wiped out with some clever trickery and a mighty quest.

_If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast For all time._

I can practically hear the drum roll here. The younger ones' eyes widen in suspense. Of course, it is supposed to be a terrible fate and I suppose that here it is worse than for the princes and princesses of the world. Here there would be little mercy--the beast would be trapped and lashed to a millstone or plow. Stronger than a man, the beast would be forced into labor and to serve those in the village as they are forced to serve the nobles who are forced to serve the royalty.

_As the years passed,  
He fell into despair, and lost all hope,  
For who could ever learn to love...a Beast?_

Of course, there is a heroine who the beastly Prince will fall in love with. And she will fall in love with him. These stories always end happily with a kiss or wedding or whatnot.

It would hardly do to disappoint the audience.

The little girls tonight will dream of being swept off their feet by a Beast who will become a prince. The little boys will dream of being the mighty beast. Undoubtedly, they will change the story a little--put in a mad fight or some mighty quest. Mighty words and mighty deeds, for which they will be rewarded with a kingdom of their own and, for those who are old enough to want it, a pretty princess to kiss.

None of them dream of being the fairy. None of the dream of being the sorcerer. They do not even question what became of the enchantress at the end of the story--what she thought of the whole business. She makes her entrance, does her bit and leaves--sliding out and in like a cuckoo bird in the clock--until some other story needs her to make a crucial appearance.

The little boys want to be the third son--or the seventh son's seventh son--who stumbles upon a high adventure. Perhaps a shepherd who defeats a mighty troll or stops an ogre from devouring everything in sight. They want to be rewarded with a kingdom and the trappings. Then, they may step into the vast tapestry of history.

The little girls, of course, do not want to be the princesses. The princesses in the stories are not interesting--only chattel to be passed from grateful king to a shepherd or random commoner. No, if they were princesses--they want to be oppressed princesses. They want to be forced to scrub floors or sleep for a hundred years or tend geese or forced to hide their royalty under a tattered coat. They want adventure, too.

So, here I am, the enchantress who wanders the land, teaching princes and princesses things their queenly mothers and kingly fathers should have. I am the unwilling villain who disrupts the orderliness of the days and nights of the rich and lucky.

I want to be a little girl. I want to play with a rag doll in the sunshine. I want to have a simple life--tending the land and watching the seasons pass along after each other. I want to sit at the stone fireplace and listen to the storyteller tell me stories of foreign lands and miraculous things and my mother sits nearby, dozing over her darning. I want to bear my own children and tell them stories of old women who transform into enchantresses.


	2. The Prince

Once upon a time, in a faraway land,  
A young Prince lived in a shining castle.

Isn't that how all the fairy tales start? Except that this one happened to me. The storyteller who holds the attention of dukes' neices, counts' sons and my own little princess almost loses her voice on that. These little children are too young to remember what happened four years ago. Or if they do remember, then it is remotely, like a bad dream.

So it has already become something that happened "once upon a time" somewhere "in a faraway land" to someone else when the story is told in my court. But everyone knows it was me, still-it's just not considered the politically correct thing to do to say it to my face.

Although he had everything his heart desired,  
The Prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind.

So that is how everything is explained. Of course, truthfully, I was spoiled. Who wouldn't be when their every whim was granted by servants who waited on his every breath? When everything was "mine" just by me saying so?

But I don't know that I was particularly cruel or selfish-except during those dark years. That's how they are remembered now-as "dark years" or "the years of the beast". Then I was driven mad by despair. Hopelessness.

Those who know call them "the years of the rose".

But then, one winter's night,  
An old beggar woman came to the castle

She was dressed as a beggar woman-a subtle but telling difference. The beggar women that I had passed once so blindly-she was not one of those ilk. Her eyes met mine boldly-a clear golden green-while true beggar's glance away. Her back was straight and proud, not bent with years of hard labor and grey weariness. She glided along her way, rather than the shuffling that comes from bearing heavy loads.

She was no beggar.

And offered him a single Rose In return for shelter from the bitter cold.

This gave her away too. Roses must be carefully tended in my cold climate-sheltered and coddled. No beggar-no matter how lowly or exalted-has the time for such a tempermental plant that cannot be eaten or woven into cloth or carved into some necessity.

Repulsed by her haggard appearance,  
The Prince sneered at the gift,  
And turned the old woman away.

I could hardly be repulsed. She was an enigma-a beggar approaching a prince as an equal. Like a small child with a new puzzle, I could hardly stand my excitement at solving the mystery.

I had heard of sorceresses and enchantresses visiting the royal houses-filled with tricks and magic. Or gifts for newborns. I had no children-and none were visiting me. She could have only visited to test me.

I remember thinking to myself - "what should I do? what should I do?" I could let her in-offer her the best chambers and delicacies and perhaps be showered by blessings for long life and wealth and power. I could offer her what any of my servants would offer a beggar-a pallet in the Great Hall and a trencher of broken meats and gravy and receive thanks and well wishes for kindness. No-if you must be kind to someone, bury them in kindness. Or I could turn her away-spurn her for the sake of adventure like the one my great great grandfather had when an enchantress turned him into a toad and dropped him in a royal garden pond far from his home. What to do? Great great grandfather had found true love-had found a firebrand who guarded the welfare of the joined kingdoms more than the fiercest bear.

What to do?

If I was blessed with long life or great wealth-it might be my ruin. Kings are loathe to set up agreements with other kingdoms if the king is going to live past their grandchildren's deaths-not only are the children's lives wasted in boredom, but the long life doesn't lend itself to the re-negotiations of future generations. And "long life" doesn't mean "good health"-who wants to be a toothless, old twisted excuse for a man who gums his porrige and slobbers his wine at 400? And great wealth would only tempt others to attempt to line their pockets with it-by hook or by crook.

Truthfully, we were a tiny kingdom-sovereign only because no one could see the reason to risk men and horses for such a tiny gain. I needed to marry for political power-to protect myself and my power or to marry a no-one and continue as a kingdom too small to warrant notice by fish larger than I in the political seas.

Of course, an adventure-the only option left-may cost many years of my life. I may never return to this land-leaving it open to my grasping uncles and cousins or invaders and conquorers. I would probably be left with some way out of the adventure-a way to break out of whatever curse she may lay upon my head-and would be the better for it. An adventure would guarantee my place in history-a place in legend. In the world of politics, I was truthfully a very small fish in a large sea of sharks-but a very small fish with a story of magic may yet find a way to swim with the sharks without being nibbled too badly.

But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, For Beauty is found within.

She said this, it is true. And, in many ways, it was seeing beneath the surface that caused me to do what I did-refuse her shelter. My mother had drilled me in basic etiquette and how to treat guests. And in a tiny land such as ours, it never paid to insult your enemies, no matter who you were. The first girl that I insulted taught me that. I had been tearing about on my first stallion when I had startled her out in a field. We both, truthfully, spoke sharply to each other-I had frightened her but was too proud to admit I was wrong and she was frightened but too proud to admit that she was scared. I finally told her that I was always right because I was the prince-a phrase that had long since ceased to amaze and awe my mother who said I wouldn't live long enough to be king if I didn't stop talking back.

Little did I know of the vengence of a woman! She was the daughter of one of the under cooks in the kitchens of the palace. So, for three days my food was terrible-the meat was charred black on the outside and raw inside, the bread was barely browned or flat and ill formed, the broths and soups that I was served was bland and tasteless, and the portions that I was served were the smallest, sloppiest servings I could have ever imagined. On the third night when my trencher held a few clods of mud, my queenly mother took me aside and I was forced to apologize sincerely with a sincerely warmed backside.

When my mother and father died from influenza, the girl that I had so grievously insulted became my best friend-carrying me tasty broths and treats to my rooms so that I would be tempted to rejoin the living rather than wallow endlessly in my grief.

And when he dismissed her again,  
The old woman's ugliness melted away To reveal a beautiful Enchantress.

It was a most beautiful transformation. The dull brown and grey robes seemed to just-well, melt. I couldn't believe it-it was like watching mud wash off of a golden figurine. The disguise dissolved into dust and ran down the delicate folds of her skirts and skin. It seemed to flow off like muddy water.

The Prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, For she had seen that there was no love in his heart.

No, there was no love in my heart-not really. My little friend had left to become the wife of the miller and was to be a mother in the summer. The friends from my childhood now were completely in awe of me-I was prince, royal ruler of their lands. I was completely surrounded by sycophants and toadies.

My heart had loved-and had lost everything it had loved. My father had died from illness, terribly. My mother had died tending him. My best friend-the son of a duke and a distant cousin-now envied my power to the point that he disgusted me. The little girl that I had befriended had found love of her own elsewhere and I never saw her again. If I was very very lucky, then I might eventually like my bretothed-a princess I would not meet until I married her-but most likely it would an typical arranged marriage where we would only co-exist in the same building with some appearance of affection.

I had known love and knew that love meant loss. Pain. Sometimes, it meant death.

And as punishment,  
She transformed him into a hideous beast,  
And placed a powerful spell on the castle,  
And all who lived there.

The adventure had begun! My father is already unknown to the children-he is a name in a long list of names of royalty. But those children know of my great great grandfather and great great grandmother! They know that my great great grandfather had become a frog and was saved by the love of my great great grandmother.

I assumed that I would be on some kind of traveling adventure-something that I could see a bit of the world while I fulfilled my quest. Truthfully, I didn't want to marry the arranged bride. I had received three different oil canvases-one of which was my own private commission. The first canvas was completely and unremarkably perfect-showing a smooth oval face in palest rosy cream and clear, green eyes with a serene face surrounded by beautiful copper waves of hair. Any man would have been proud to have married her-but it was painted by a fool looking for a large purse. The second showed a slightly more dignified appearance, the princess in a riding habit of deep blue, her hair scraped back and tied with a ribbon, her face flushed and somewhat sunburnt and more heart shaped than oval. The last one was a portrait that I had had commissioned in private-with strict instructions that the artist was to paint what the princess most commonly looked like, rather than any romantic ideal. So, in due course, the portrait arrived with a rather horsey looking princess in a riding habit with some straw in her wind tossed hair. Her hands were positively grimy, as were her boots. Her hair was still red, but instead of the pretty color of copper, it was the unpleasant orange of new ripe tomatoes. Her nose even resembled a small tomato-small and round and red from the sun and wind and seemed to be covered in a hundred tiny freckles. Her teeth were snaggled, with one bad tooth a dark grey.

The artist I commissioned sent along a brief portfolio of sketches of the princess, as well brief notes of each sketch and the princess' movements and activites. She spent an inordinant amount of time on her horses, jumping fences and gullies and tearing through fields. She disdained learning of any type, although she liked to play chess and purportedly played cards.

I had never been beyond the borders of my own small lands. I had received many visitors from other lands-places that were only names on a map-but hadn't seen them. It was deemed "too risky" for me to travel myself. My own bride's kingdom bordered mine to the east and we were to be married in the westernmost cathedral of my lands. Purportedly it was because it was "good luck" and "halfway between us", but mostly it was to prevent us being vulnerable to attacks traveling back and forth.

I was a young man-full of vigor and eyes wide open for adventure. Instead, I was more isolated than ever.

Ashamed of his monstrous form,  
The beast concealed himself inside his castle,  
With a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.

I thought that I made a rather handsome beast, all things considered. I resembled a lion-quite an interesting creature from what I could tell from the pictures and sketches that my grandfather had collected. Once I got over the shock, I rather liked being so much larger and stronger and being able to bound over things like a great cat.

I suppose that it is interesting to say that we hid ourselves away. I had thought, in my small minded way, that I was hidden away in my normal life. Yet, in those dark years we never strayed from this castle. My servants and household of course were hard pressed to make it through all the gardens and everything to the outer gate.

I could have bounded through, if I had wanted. Indeed, the gates wouldn't have held against my animalistic strength. But in the end, I was afraid. I was afraid to leave my home behind. I was afraid that I would be captured by Gypsies and thrown into some kind of freakish sideshow. I was afraid ...of all silly things...burning myself trying to cook food.

The Rose she had offered,  
Was truly an enchanted rose,  
Which would bloom for many years.

Yes...that accursed rose bloomed and bloomed. It bloomed for almost 10 years and a petal fell about every five months. Of course, now, those who have ever seen the truly enchanted rose are less than impressed with regular ones. It is a curse that those things that are enchanted take the beauty out of what they imitate and every rose since then has seemed imperfectly made-it's the wrong shade of red or doesn't have quite the velvet on the petals or the scent is just a little off or something.

I hated all the rosebushes in my gardens after that. Only my Belle's love for the flower tamed my hand. Otherwise they would have all been burned to the ground.

If he could learn to love another,  
And earn her love in return By the time the last petal fell,  
Then the spell would be broken.

That part was true, of course-it is a fairy's lot to offer an out from her curses. Those who don't are often cursed threefold in return, from what I have been told. Yet, I could only despair. Love was loss, and now, I had lost most everything-even my humanity.

I did learn to love, but it took a long time to recognize the love that I had already. There are six Greek words for love-agape being the most commonly recognized. The concept of brotherly love-love given because one simply is another human on this mortal coil-seems to be the most overlooked. I didn't recognize it, at least. I was too wrapped up in my own hatred and fear and rage to notice how much love I was given. Mrs. Potts always had a kind word and made sure that I had mulled wine for bedtime and a cake for my birthdays. Cogsworth always made sure that the routines of the castle were carried out-when the mattresses were aired, when hallways were cleared, and so on. They must have loved me greatly to do those small things for me when I was so torn by my destiny.

If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast For all time.

How many years did I waste, lurking in the shadows of the castle and destroying everything I could in my rages? After scarcely a year-a year spent in constant rage and fury-I couldn't recognize myself. I was eating like an animal, sleeping wherever my furry form fell, dribbling and practically foaming at the mouth. After two years, watching yet another petal fall-it seemed like the fairy was more a demon come to curse me, rather than the grand adventure I thought it would be. So I wasted time, alone, rather than seek the adventure I thought that I wanted.

And for some time, I didn't care that I would remain a beast. My arranged bride had begged off-news such as mine traveled as quickly as whispers could-and I was more alone than ever. The castle I neglected completely. I paid no more attention to the daily running of the castle than I paid attention to a spider in the corner of the room. In fact, most days it pleased me that the drawbridge was temporarily broken-my farrier and master ironworker were an anvil and a bellows and it took Cogsworth some doing to get them to repair the ancient chains-or that the portcullis was rusted shut because I had neglected to give orders for it's care.

If I was to remain a beast, then so be it.

As the years passed,  
He fell into despair, and lost all hope,  
For who could ever learn to love...a Beast?

It bought me little-those years spent in solitude. I did lose hope-I wouldn't have approached my own castle had I not lived there. I finally did let Cogsworth have his head and take charge of all the necessary repairs and care, not particularly caring if he did his job or not. Mrs. Potts took charge of the household-making sure that we had clean linens and fresh vegetables and such. And so I was little troubled by everyday affairs beyond the grasp of my own rage and grief.

Yet, when the curse was finally broken and I resumed my human form-when I was finally human again-I almost regretted it. I had been so strong and so swift-bounding upstairs in three leaps rather than in twenty steps. I had accepted my monstrous form-even prized at how it was handome in some ways not readily seen. I was strong and mighty-enough to take a dagger in the back and still come out of the other side as my rival fell to the ravine below me.

Now, of course, I'm only a prince with a famous story. My daughter-for this moment-loves the story, so it is carefully told over and over for her delight. I wonder if in time she'll regret it-the knowing glances and innuendos from having such infamous parents.

I often ask myself, have I learned to love? I have learned to recognize love when it is given, and to return my affection as openly as a powerful man might when the walls have ears and every breath is watched as an opportunity. So, yes, I suppose that I have learned to love. Despite all forces conspiring against it-I did find my lovely wife. And in spite of our terrible tempers, we learned to find the beauty in each other. I suppose that is learning to love.

On still nights, when the castle is quiet, though, I still think about the enchantress. As I sit in my study or lie in my bed, I wonder what became of her-she is barely a blurb in the story, yet she played such a role. I wonder if she knows that her spell has granted me immortality of a sort. I wonder if she's gone on to other kingdoms, other places, like I thought that I wanted to go. I wonder if I fell in love with her some small bit-if an enchanted being is like an enchanted rose and puts all mundane things to such shame you regret not having the enchantment back and damn the consequences.

I wonder, what I will tell my daughter when a stranger knocks on the door some winter's night. 


End file.
